I love older women - the ones fighting tooth and nail to catch the last few rays of the sun of youth - even though clouds covered that garden long ago. Long, long ago. So when I get this one particular old bird Saturday night, I know I'm in for a fun ride.
This old bird is well seasoned. Well seasoned and tenderized - but she's working every bit of what she's got. Cut off blue-jeans that would be scandalous on women four decades younger sit atop some chicken legs - tan chicken legs - but chicken legs nonetheless. She's got a spaghetti strap yellow mini-tank that is at least a size too small and seems designed to display her still-firm (either by surgeon's knife or nature's grace) assets.
The hair - I've got to say - is rocking. Think Cassandra Peterson - except really white blonde and only shoulder-length. And she's knocking about in white boots. Why I don't know. I wish I did.
Age is clearly a state of mind to this woman - and while her sartorial choices could be debated -- she's clearly having a good time at this stage of her life. She's about to spread the humor.
She got the twin to the spaghetti strap tee she's wearing - only in blue - and she doesn't want it. She set the bag on the counter and I ask her if she has her receipt.
She tells me it is in the bag. I look and it is not there. I ask her if it is in her pockets. Not that there's room for anything in those pockets.
"I just had it. I was looking at it in the car."
I ask her "Did you take it out at the door when they put the sticker on the shirt?"
She says no - and then goes "Maybe I put it in here."
HERE turns out to be the First National Bank of the C Cup.
Right there. Right in front of me. RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, Shiva and about ten other people. She starts digging around in her freaking front end. She knocks aside a cross and a gold necklace and starts feeling around between her breasts. I'm just transfixed. I didn't know whether to stare or to look away. She pulls up a wad of cash and starts looking through it for a receipt.
At this point, I seriously started to consider - what the hell do I do if she actually FINDS the receipt? Really. Breast sweat? That's going above and beyond the call of duty. Especially for Wal-Mart.
She never found the receipt. Thank you Shiva. I asked for her drivers license - which thankfully she kept in her purse - and she bounced out with a shopping card.